It’s so hard to be myself with you,combing the bookstoreexcited about the lyrics ofKafka, Baldwin and Alvarez,knowing you want me to hurryand get back hometo where you can be disappointed with the dinnerand my sadness.

And then,you will sit in your chair and forgetto wash the dishes,forget to comb your hair,forget to return calls,and forget that once I was part ofthe things that made you happy

Sometimes in between burning the riceAnd being sad,I forget that

"I love you as certain dark things are to be lovedin secret, between the shadow and the soul"

You told mommy you hated her today,but I knewthat was a lie.You held that Heineken bottle tightly,like your nephewclinging to his favorite blanket.Your sturdy hands were shaking and I witnessed the privacy of your afflictions in your dialectand sweaty forehead.

There is a story to tell,I promise one day I will tell the world that all the odds were against youand that Barbados raised you alone.I will not leave out the flawlessness of your swaying bodyagainst Kartel tunesor the cod fish and rice with lentilsin the winter.The liability isn’t all yours.I know the pain rides you.But we are loners, brother.We live in a land where we must "honor thy mother and thy father"or we won't live long enough to see our tears trace the city like bridges.There are no morals to your story,only a restricted beginningforging an appetite for womenand childrenwith hostilities.

But, you are not the “Prodigal Son”you are a father and brother,rising before dayto iron your clothesand begin your hustle,because “the early bird catches the worm”and you are destined to fly above lifeless expectations speaking the language of the stars.You were never an illusion, or fiasco,you have not failed.When you spoke to mommy today,those lies didn’t bandage my revelations.You wanted to be held,for real,but instead, you drank your Heineken and sat down.Mommy, sobbed in the cornerand I smoked a cigarette at the table,as our sister was yelling something about telling you to leave,while our children were asleep in the back room.Who will tell your story?There are Bajan dreams dyingon the inside of a man.There are remnants of his nightmaresstirring his nostalgic sorrows.Marijuana stained secretsrelating to hisinsensible one-night standsand there are people walking by,doing nothing…We are loners, brother.We rip the flesh off bones of truth;There are hills in our backs and jungles in our souls.We walk on frayed ankles,born as Bajan pariahsand American misfits;we scream quietly.We know no mothersor fathersor the love that comes in between.No one understands us.I sung a black girl’s song today,but tomorrowI vow,I will tell your story.

He smells.A stench of rubbing alcoholand Gatorademixed with the aroma of indifferenceand ambiguity.He isn’t old,nor young,a fool,married but never knew love,four childrentugging at his waist and anklesbut never a father.Get up! Mr. Fool!Walk!Your legs may be brokenbut your heart continues to resonate.Get up! Show Harlemthat you are a man…

One day,you’re gonna walk into this house,and I won’t be here.I would’ve taken all the picturesoff the walls,and you’ll sit down and say,“Damn I miss her.”You will start to familiarize yourselfwith my thickness in your nostrils,and my brown skin wrapped tightly‘round your butterscotch,and you will kick yourself in the ass,for not noticing me much at all.Your hands won’t want to construct,nor your tongue the desire to tasteand while I’m moving aroundsome place in a poem,you will take both your shoes off,and want to go find me.See,the way I see it isone day,I won’t be available and this situation won’t need my tears,you’ll stop and say:“Damn I miss her”and then you’ll notice,you’ve been trapped,just a,gritty, reckless, graffiti-colored nomad,surfing the subway in kaleidoscope dreams,always expecting more, giving less,to women and baby boyswho took your face,and examined your edges.That day,My lips won’t reach for you,you’ll just sit down and say,“Damn, I miss her”